Before Rosalie
by Evelyn2012
Summary: It's 1950, and Emmett and Rosalie are getting married.  However, plans go awry when a woman from Emmett's past appears in the audience.  She brings back parts of Emmett's past he's willingly forgotten.  Told through flashbacks and different points of view
1. Wedding Bells

**Author's Note: First of all, no copyright infringement intended. With a few exceptions, all of these characters are the property of Stephanie Meyer. The world is hers, too. Secondly, this was previously published under another account of mine, but this is the new, edited, (hopefully) better version. Enjoy, and then review! **

Emmett, 1950

I watched from the doorway as Esme brushed out Rosalie's golden curls and then tied them up high with a silken ribbon. Alice, so new to our family yet already such a common part I couldn't imagine not knowing her and Jasper, was pulling out wrinkles in the white satin with swift fingers. She draped and redraped the lacy veil about Rosalie's shoulders, and then set to rearranging the white roses in Rosalie's bouquet, though they looked perfect already to me…which meant more now that I was a vampire than it would have when I was human.

Rosalie was examining herself in a mirror (not an uncommon practice for her) when she glimpsed me. She fought back her smile, and then turned to glare at me, interrupting Esme, who was busy settling the coronet of white roses over Rosalie's veil.

"It's bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding," she scolded, voice icy, but golden eyes smoldering into mine. I just wanted to take her into my arms, kiss her, hold her…but Alice was laughing. She had seen what I was about to do. "You don't want to do that yet," she said lightly, eyes dancing to Esme's. Esme only shook her head, still trying to fix Rosalie's veil.

"I do, actually," I said, with a good-humored laugh. Alice rolled her eyes. Rosalie grinned briefly before returning to looking stern.

Then I answered Rosalie. "Perhaps it is bad luck," I said, taking in all of Rosalie several times over, "but what is it everyone says? You must make your own luck?"

She glared, and quick as a flash the door was shut in my face. I chuckled to myself; she could be so difficult.

Glancing into the sanctuary, I saw all the pews were filled. People didn't come so much for Rosalie and me as they did for Carlisle, the miracle doctor. Everyone was in their best. Near the back a pretty woman in her early thirties comforted a crying toddler. I couldn't tell if she was beautiful; my thoughts of beautiful could only consist of snow white skin, wide eyes that changed from gold to black and back again, golden curls that looked like the finest sunshine...The woman sat next to a gray haired man, although he didn't look that much older than her. I didn't know why I noticed her; I normally paid little to no attention to humans if they didn't smell…mouthwatering.

Vicious, I know, and if it were Edward who had these thoughts he would hate himself for a long time; it was the same way with Esme. Not that Esme had killed more than ten or twenty humans in her life. . . .And, of all of us (besides Carlisle, because he's never killed anyone), she feels the most guilt over human lives she's taken. But that was just Esme. And Edward could hear his victims' frightened thoughts, so naturally he felt monstrous.

I knew Jasper only cared about humans if he could see himself going over to them, putting his mouth to their skin, as if to kiss, but actually to bite…so I wasn't the only one. Rosalie, of course, never drank from humans; she clung far too tightly to her own humanity for that. Alice was remarkably good at abstaining, but then, she could see the impact killing that one person would have. So I didn't feel like a brute…or a monster, as Edward frequently called us.

It still didn't explain why I felt so drawn to the woman with the round green eyes and the glossy brown curls. Something flashed through my mind momentarily; those wide eyes were gleaming from a young face; slender, soft arms were twined about my neck….

The woman was staring at me, eyes shocked, disbelieving, and yet hopeful at the same time. "Emmett?" She whispered. "Emmett McCarty?"


	2. Enraged and Engaged

Rosalie, 1950

Finally. It was time. As I prepared to go through the double doors leading to the sanctuary, I sensed something was amiss. Where was the organ? Kate's fingers should already be weaving across the keys in harmony with Irina's harp, a skill she'd picked up nearly eight hundred years ago and had finessed to perfection since then. Why weren't Carmen and Eleazer spinning a wordless accompaniment with their ethereal voices? Why weren't my flower girls moving? Tanya, Esme, and Alice, my bridesmaids, stood motionless, glancing back at me. Carlisle was suddenly at my side, his lips moving so swiftly no human could understand.

"Emmett isn't out there. He's frantic about a woman in the audience recognizing him."

I didn't like Carlisle's calm tone; it made me suspicious. "Who is it, Carlisle?" I asked.

Carlisle said, his voice soothing, "Rosalie, that is of no importance. Right now I need you to come convince Emmett to come out of his dressing room."

"Who is it?" I could feel the sharpness of my voice. Carlisle looked into my eyes as Esme stepped forward carefully. She clasped his large hand with her small, dainty one, lacing her fingers through his. She looked up into his eyes; they were communicating wordlessly, which was extremely irritating. I wanted answers. Immediately.

As if sensing this, Esme turned her golden gaze to me, and spoke in a placating voice.

"Rosalie, please, don't make a bigger fuss about it than has already been made. Emmett needs you to talk to him."

I growled. Not in an aggressive way – I would never let anyone, myself included, lay a harmful hand on Esme- but in a way that let her know I was not satisfied with this answer.

Eight golden orbs focused on me in surprise—Tanya's eyebrows were almost in her hair. Esme's eyes were pleading, and of course I hated upsetting her, my loving mother, but it was _my _day…no trite human was going to ruin it for me! I would know her identity, so I could throw her out myself if necessary. The anger was bubbling in my stomach, hot and acidic.

"Who is it?" I repeated, the slightest of snarls in my voice. I was no longer asking to know; I was demanding.

Esme brushed my cheek with her marble-smooth hand, her expression sad—for whom, I wasn't certain.

Carlisle sighed, resigned. Alice's eyes were wide and unseeing; she was having a vision. One of her arms was upraised slightly as she swayed on the spot, a tiny willow tree in the wind; she was used to having Jasper nearby to steady her. But Jasper and Edward were at the front of the church, which was a pity; I could have used Jasper's gift. No doubt everyone else wished Edward were here to tell them what I was thinking.

Carlisle's gaze darted to Alice for the briefest of moments as he placed a steadying hand on my arm. Or a restraining hand, I wasn't sure which.

"Rachel."

Rachel, New Year's Day, 1935

I leaned up on my toes to meet Emmett's kiss. He pulled me closer, and I sighed slightly. The happiness I felt when I was with him still surprised me at times, though we'd been courting for about a year.

"Happy sixteenth," he whispered into my ear, and I shivered as his breath tickled the hairs on my neck. And he pulled out a ring.

I gasped. How could a boy from the backwoods of Tennessee, where we traded more than purchased what we needed, have afforded a diamond ring?

He chuckled gently at my stare, and slipped it on my finger. "But…Emmett…" I groped in my head for the right words, but my mind wasn't functioning properly. I felt rather faint, but I had to keep myself upright. I didn't want him to see me as weak or helpless.

"Say yes, Rachel," he said, eyes gazing into mine, his lips forming my name with an adoration that made my knees tremble.

I twisted out of his grasp and smoothed my hair with one hand, extremely conscious that I still had the ring on my finger—my left hand hung stiffly and awkwardly at my side.

Looking up at him through my lashes I asked, sounding playful but being really quite serious, "Why do you want silly little me to marry you? You're nearly twenty…and you could get anyone you wanted." I cringed internally as I remembered how much pretty Carlotta Thomas had flirted with him at the church's Christmas party, her pretty blonde hair framing her pretty little face with those pretty blue eyes. To top it all off, she was wearing a pretty pink dress that was pretty low cut.

I tried to remind myself that Emmett had barely spared her a glance, and he'd danced every dance with me, but I couldn't block the image of her pretty white hands on his muscular shoulders as she "fell" and he, being the nearest male, had caught her, hands placed around her pretty little waist. She'd held herself close to him for an extra moment after she regained her footing, her pretty, plump lips slightly parted, her eyes looking into his with a look that should have gotten her in a lot of trouble with her father.

Carlotta Thomas was such a pretty little slut.

Even as I stayed away from his still outstretched arms I longed to fall into them. But I couldn't; I had to hear what I wanted to hear first.

"Rachel," he sighed, exasperated. "I want to marry you because _I love you_. Because you're my gal."

My face lit up at the old nickname. I knew he could read the answer in my eyes because his face, which had been uncharacteristically nervous at first, became good-humored and confident once more.

"Yes!" I cried. I leapt into his arms and he twirled me about in the moonlight, the tips of my toes skimming the dewy grass.

"'Why do you want to marry me?'" He teased. "Honestly, Rachel, that was a stupid question. What other reason could I possibly have?"

I kissed him in reply, and then, hands twined tightly together, we went back to the party, his ring glittering on my finger, finer and more beautiful than the stars above us.


	3. Unseen

Emmett, 1950

I kept my face in my hands. Rosalie would be so disappointed…but that woman knew, she knew who I was! And not just any woman…Rachel. I could barely remember her, but Carlisle assured me I was once engaged to her.

I pitied her for several reasons. The first was that my human memories were dim and unremarkable, save my dying moments, when Rosalie had entered my life and set the world on fire. Consequently, my memories of this woman had grown weak, become a faded photograph or a scratchy record. And I pitied her because she had believed I loved her. And, at the time, I'm sure I believed the same thing; as a human, I hadn't known Rosalie, and therefore hadn't known just how important one person could be.

Even the thought of Rosalie not being in my life was excruciatingly painful. I was glad such a time had existed only in my human years, twenty years viewed as if looking through a smudged glass.

It was only thanks to my superhuman hearing that I heard the softest whisper of silk.

Rosalie was standing in front of me. My wife, my soul mate, the woman I still believed to be my angel. But she didn't look sad; she looked furious. And as she stood there glaring at me, I chuckled. She was mad because some human was holding off _her _wedding.

"Emmett," she said, lovely voice so soft but so sharp, "why does this woman matter?"

"She knows me, Rosalie, she knows who I am! She could ruin us!" And I stopped chuckling as I remembered the reason for my despair.

"She doesn't know you," Rosalie snapped. "She's just some poor woman hallucinating about a long lost fiancé. Everyone will believe that. She probably half-believes that herself."

I looked at Rosalie for a long moment, and then found myself saying, "You don't know Rachel. When someone disagrees with her, she argues until she wins. My gal is the most stubborn person I know."

Rosalie's face contorted, and she whispered harshly, "Do you know Rachel so well? Is your _gal_" she spat the word from her beautiful lips as if it were a particularly foul-tasting poison "a match for your _wife_?"

I reeled at the impact of her words, and I was dizzied by what I had just said. I didn't know where that had come from, but I found myself wondering: maybe _I _didn't know myself.

More important than my inner musings, however, was one undeniable fact: Rosalie was _pissed._

I reached for her, but she sprang away in less than a second, her skirts settling gracefully about her.

"Rose," I murmured, gently, persuasively. "Rose, I love _you_. Only you." As I spoke, I felt something I hadn't felt for many, many years. Fear. Rosalie couldn't leave me. I would do anything for her.

Including—if she asked it of me, if she implied that she wanted it—murder.

Rachel, 1935

"Lord would you look at the rock on this girl's finger?" Aunt Abigail cried. All my family was down for the wedding celebrations. I couldn't believe in less than a week I would be married to my Emmett. I would be Mrs. Emmett McCarty. Rachel Louise Jenkinson McCarty.

"Has he got your house fixed up yet?" My cousin Edith wanted to know. Edith was engaged to a man back in North Carolina and seemed determined to prove her man was better than mine. But when she had seen Emmett her mouth dropped. From what her brother had said, her fiancé was some skinny, fifty-year-old banker.

"Oh yes!" my mother answered for me, "about three miles out from here, this lovely little cabin by a meadow filled with wildflowers. It's just gorgeous—like it came straight out of a painting!"

All day long my kinsfolk interrogated me and my family about it. My best friend, Sally, was sweet on my cousin Ben, so she was no comfort at all, for she was always off with him, kissing and doing goodness knows what else.

Suppertime approached. Nobody would let me help cook, because my wedding was coming up, and as my mother said, "With a man who eats as much as Emmett you'll be cooking from sunup until sundown after you get married."

So, to pass the time, I alternated between daydreaming about Emmett, and remembering the very ugly look on Carlotta's face when Emmett had proudly announced our engagement at the church social.

The day was muggy, and mosquitoes flew about my face. As I stood up to slap one that had dared to land on my leg, I spotted Mr. McCarty, a giant of a man who reminded me very much of Emmett. I ran to greet him.

"Hello!" I called, grinning. As I stopped before him, Mr. McCarty kissed me on my cheek and took my arm. He said nothing, though. He didn't tease me as he usually did; he didn't even smile that brilliant, roguish grin that was the defining characteristic of all the McCarty men.

Instead, Mr. McCarty smiled at me sadly, and walked with me to the porch. "Where are your folks?" he asked seriously, his huge iron arm tightening convulsively, yanking me towards him, causing me to stumble across the yard.

"Sorry," he grunted, as he helped me regain my balance. I looked into his eyes, bright brown ones that were just like Emmett's. They were filled with something I didn't want to recognize.

I kept my bright smile on, though. Maybe it was nothing. I had to be imagining things. "Where are your folks?" He repeated in a lifeless voice tinged with despair. My smile faded slightly, and I gestured towards the house. We were almost to the porch steps.

"Everyone's inside," I said quietly, something huge and awful rearing up inside my gut.

"Please get them, Rachel," he sighed, and sat in a chair on the porch. I ran to fetch my parents, and of course everyone followed.

"Rachel," he said, tears in his eyes, "I have some horrible news for you." Fear clutched my heart, and every part of me trembled. My brain scrambled for explanations that completely left my Emmett, my playful, sweet, fiance, out of this "horrible news".

I felt a stinging pain on the palm of my hand. Looking down, I saw my nails had cut through the skin there; blood appeared in thin, crescent-shaped lines.

"Emmett was out hunting," Mr. McCarty began. My nails dug back into the cuts, and I didn't even notice the pain. Noticing this, my father-in-law-to-be reached over and took my hands. His were shaking, and his voice was, too, as he continued. "And when he didn't come back, the boys and I went looking for him. We found…large pools of blood…and bear tracks."

Every nerve in my body was filled to the brim with pain, but it didn't hurt. Not then. There was still hope.

"But you haven't found him yet?" My voice was higher pitched than I'd ever heard it. "We just have to keep looking! He could be hurt, he's still alive, he just can't get home…we have to find him, we have to-"

But Mr. McCarty began to shake his head, and I barely recognized the moaned, "No, please, no," as my own.

"Rachel…I wish you were right. But there's no way he could have survived that, honey. If you had seen…but of course it's better that you didn't. I'm so, so sorry." And I knew, from the tears rolling over his cheeks, that he _was _sorry, and that he felt pain, too.

But that didn't really matter. Because what he was saying wasn't true. Emmett wasn't dead; it was some nightmare, some terrible dream.

I yanked my hands from Mr. McCarty's as if burned. How could he tell me such filthy lies? I looked around, waiting from Emmett to pop out from behind something and yell, "Surprise!" I'd kiss him, hold him tightly, and forbid him to do something like this again.

But there was no Emmett. There was only the tears on his father's face, the heaviness of the silence, and the biting mosquitoes.

I felt hands on my shoulders, hands smoothing my hair; I felt my mother hugging me while Sally held my hands, sobbing, and I gasped as the pain registered. Tears leaked out, and a ragged scream tore through the air that reeked of heartbreak. I realized it was mine. I leaned into my mother's shoulder, sobbing so loudly that it probably echoed across the mountains, frightening the animals. Thoughts of what it "was better that I hadn't seen" assaulted me, made me quake with horror.

The pain was too much for me, for one person, and it overflowed to burn everyone around me, like a pool of acid.

My Emmett was dead, and I just wanted to lay down in the pool and die.

Rachel, 1940

I say my vows. I kiss him. I betray my broken, bruised heart to save what is left of my love.

Rachel, 1950

It is him. I would swear it on everything and everyone near and dear to me. And he is about to marry another, a beautiful blonde, so beautiful it hurts to look at her. My eldest child, Joan, looks at him and says, "Mother, he's so handsome. Aren't they just the loveliest couple?"

I laugh harshly and say, "Yes, Joan. They are." She looks worried, but she will survive. She is nearly fifteen after all.

"Sweetheart, I didn't know you knew the couple! When I said Carlisle's brother was getting married, you didn't give any sign of acknowledgement." My husband sounds reproving as he says this.

I want to scream at my husband it is because that name means nothing to me…the only name that will _ever _mean anything to me is Emmett McCarty.


End file.
